Perpetual Soirée
Winter of masking
care and stress everywhere
When will better days arrive?
~
This bitter distress
Masquerading as winter
May caper long into spring
and
Winter Bloom
Alabaster fields
Feel desolate as deserts
And yet, they harbor hope
~
A lone flower stands
One bright spot against the pale
Perhaps a brave garden’s start?
A collaboration between Kristen @rhode-reads on Instagram and Andy @agarrabrant on Instagram.
They must think us dogs
salivating to their bells
doing tricks for tiny treats!
~
And how can they not
when we drool at every cue
playing games they tell us to?
~
Is there any choice?
After all, they hold the cards
and set the rules we must regard.
~
Why must we regard
their arbitrary edicts
when their only care
is their self-serving interests?
Bite the hands that feed, I say!
Ignore their strident bellows!
Exercise our every freedom!
Let us run across the meadows!
Some Christians might want
to review what Jesus said
for them to be and to do.
~
Some Christians don’t care
what that bastard had to say!
After all, he was a Jew!
Ahhh! Teen age angst,
Existential misery,
And a crappy attitude.
Adolescent trifecta!
~
Ahhh! Middle Age angst,
Existential misery,
And a huh-how attitude.
Middle Age trifecta!
~
Geriatric angst,
Existential misery,
And… uhhh… what was I saying?
Oh well. It doesn’t matter.
Must there always be
A winner and a loser?
Can’t people work together?
~
Cooperation
Is more difficult to grasp
The ego finds no reward.
When a woman wins,
does the world respond with love,
or do they lash out with hate?
~
Only frightened men,
With murkier histories,
Hate to see a woman win.
———-
I was talking with a coworker, today, about some of the poetic forms I write in. She was particularly interested in the Mondo, poetic dialogue. The next thing I know, there is a katauta in my text message app!
and an invitation to any poet for closure:
please comment with your ‘katauta’ (three lines-first with 5 syllables, second and third with seven syllables each) reply. This tired soul needs closure!!!
When the midnight mind
gallops off in dervish romp,
what’s a tired soul to do?
—-
Aroil in Pain 